


Looking Forward

by LadyGunslinger



Category: Fallout (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2017-12-28 15:09:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGunslinger/pseuds/LadyGunslinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A soldier returns home from a long tour in Anchorage, assigned to a mission of utmost importance. The Great War looms on the horizon. Military intelligence claims strange products shipped out of the Big Mountain Research Facility. Lee must investigate the Sierra Madre Casino and discover what exactly Frederick Sinclair is hiding, before the War tears the world apart. However, it appears the Madre might have more secrets than one soldier can cope with...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Look Back

**Author's Note:**

> Very soon this fic will be taken down and heavily edited.

**Chapter 1**

**June 27, 2077:**

It was a hundred degrees outside. The May sunshine glared down on the cracked pavement beneath my feet, reflecting a silky sheen of light like accumulated oil. The ground and the air were hot enough to roast me in my clothes.

The sun hung low in a stark blue sky so faded, it appeared almost white. There was just the faintest indication of the brilliant ruby-red sunset that would occur in an hour or so; the shadows were a little longer than they were at noontime, stretched sharp and thin along the ground, and the bright white trim on the faded awnings of the Garber Drugstore had begun to turn orange, saturated with that vivid sunset light. I thought instantly of the old song my mother had loved, a golden oldie called _I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire._ Looking out at my hometown for the first time in years, I had to wonder if the world wasn't already busy burning.

It was a hot day for May, and as I sat in the parking lot of the local fast food pit, I thought for a second that I had never been hotter. Sweat dripped down my face. I really should have rented a car. At least then I could have had some shelter.

The fast food joint was called The Cheeseburger Palace, and it had become wildly popular in the last four years or so. It was one of sixteen of its kind spread out within a hundred-mile radius. In big cities, you could find one on every corner, but Sioné was anything but a big city. We boast less than fifteen hundred residents and there is little tourism to speak of. Who would want to look at Sioné? It's a town of some ugliness, so aggressively All-American that you just want to scream on every Fourth of July as the fat, old, Republican mayor rambles on about the duties of "true American citizens." Besides the world's largest Nuka-Cola bottle over in Van City, there were really no points of interest in the entire county.

I could feel the heat baking into my boots as I stood up and crossed the parking lot. The sun reflected off the mirrored sunglasses I'd bought in Pop Reginald's convenience store on Mercer Street—the same store that, as a kid, I had shoplifted from on many an occasion. Me and my little "gang," three perfectly ordinary kids from a perfectly ordinary housing development a mile off Main Street. There was me, with my boy's clothes and the eternal pack of cigarettes in my jacket; Salvatore Marino, my next-door neighbor; and Dee, of course. Scrawny, boyish Dee, handsome even at five when we first met, and handsomer still when he left Sioné at eighteen. I hadn't seen Dee in years. Sal, however, I was going to see right now.

The Cheeseburger Palace stood nearly empty in the center of a parking lot where there had once been a bar. I didn't feel like going inside. I ambled around the building to the drive-thru with my hands in my pockets, and stopped at the speaker. "What can I get you, hon?" asked a sweet voice.

"Two chicken sandwiches, a Palace Deluxe, extra-large fries, large chocolate milkshake, and a Cinnamon Twisty." There was silence on the other end. I waited for a moment. "My friend?"

"Twenty-six fifty." The voice sounded shocked. Why? Was that a huge order or something? "Please pull forward." I shrugged and moseyed around to the window, where a large woman in a blue-and-yellow Cheeseburger Palace shirt stood waiting inside by the cash register. She blinked at me and adjusted the enormous headset clamped over her hair. She was probably confused about my distinct, obvious lack of a car. "Did you just . . . .?"

I nodded and offered her the money. She reached down to accept it, and as her fat fingers brushed against mine, I noted her expression, watched her visibly flinch as we made contact. She turned her impressive bulk around to put the money in the register behind her. I stood on my toes and leaned through the window, putting my hands up on the frame, and braced my weight against the wall. When she turned around, she and I were practically nose to nose. She squeaked and stepped back.

"I need to talk to your manager, doll," I said smoothly. Disgust crossed her face. Obviously she thought I was . . . the other way. But the endearment had just slipped out. I guess it was part of coming home at last. Picking up the old habits. It's what I used to call Dee. He'd liked that, liked the way it made his ego feel. An attractive fellow is a successful one, he'd always said. He liked to feel attractive.

God, I missed Dee.

The woman frowned. Her small eyes narrowed. "He's in a meeting," she said, sounding suspicious.

It was an automatic lie— the managers only reported to their superiors on Tuesdays, right before the staff meetings. It was a Sunday afternoon. But this lady didn't know I'd already done my research. That was fine. It was her job. I kept my smile in place. "Trust me, doll," I said, liking the way annoyance flashed across her face, "your manager will want to see me." I knew I was being condescending, but I couldn't help myself.

I heard a honk behind me. A red-faced guy was leaning out of a vividly-blue Corvega. "Hey!" he yelled at me. "We've got to eat! Get out of the way."

I gritted my teeth and rounded on him. Training dictated I should either ignore or subdue anyone who interfered with my job. This civilian was not a threat, so I settled for something in between. Digging in my pocket again, I produced a round, shiny gold badge in a smart leather wallet. "Be patient, sir," I chided.

Incredibly, he had the balls to step out of his car and advance on me. "We got a problem?" he asked. Normally I would attempt to intimidate him with physical harm, as per my training, but he was no soldier or punk. He looked like an accountant at the end of a long day in the office, a short man with the beginning of a potbelly, balding, his shirt rumpled, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. I could almost hear Dee sneer. Dee had _always_ been well-dressed. Classiness went with attractiveness, or so he used to say.

I sighed and tapped my badge. "Know what this means?" I asked him. "I'm working government business." Not precisely true, but this guy didn't know better. "I have the authority to shut this place down and question everyone on the premises." _If only I have probable cause and permission from my superior_ , I added silently to myself. "So you can do one of three things. You can wait patiently like a good little citizen, you can back out and find a different place to eat, or I can waste both your time and mine by stopping service and detaining every one of you while I finish my business." I spoke as politely as possible, but I could feel myself losing my temper. "It's up to you, buddy," I added. The man huffed and stomped back to his car. Evidently he decided to wait.

Satisfied, I looked back up at the bewildered cashier. "Can I see the manager now, sweetheart?" I asked her wickedly.

She pursed her lips. "Come in the back entrance," she said, and hurried out of sight, probably to warn her superior of my arrival.

I strolled around to the back door and pushed my way through the crowded kitchen, careful not to disturb the Mister Handy food-prep robots as they rushed back and forth. They worked alongside humans here. I liked that. RobCo made everything a little more modern, even in this dump of a town, without stealing too many of our precious jobs. One of the employees pointed to the manager's office. I knocked on the door.

"Come in?" said a confused voice. I opened the door.

The room was occupied by a single man drowning in an ocean of paper. He was seated at a desk, but looked up upon my entrance. I saw his dark eyes widen behind his wire-rim spectacles.

The last time I'd seen Sal, he'd been a boy of nineteen, sneaking sips of champagne at his sister's wedding. This Sal had lost the ponytail, the silver earring, the leather jackets and motorcycle boots. This Sal's hair was cropped short and greased back like a respectable member of society's. He wore a white shirt with the cuffs rolled up, revealing his hairy wrists. There was ink on his hands. His blue tie lay over his shoulders like a scarf. He opened his mouth and closed it again, unable to speak.

For a second I stood in the doorway, unsure what to say or how he'd react. It had been a long time. The way he looked at me, I'll admit—the wonder and elation in his eyes made me smile. A huge weight rolled off my chest. It was Sal, _my_ Sal, the boy I'd grown up with.

"Lee?" he said wonderingly. He stood up, sending papers everywhere across the cheap carpet. "Oh my God! It _is_ you!" He moved around the desk with arms outstretched, a skinny man in the type of suit we'd once sworn never to wear.

I wiped my eyes discreetly. "Hey, big guy," I said, sliding into his embrace. He slapped me on the back like one of his fellows. "Good to see ya."

"Good to see _you_!" he replied enthusiastically. Then he held me out at arm's length and commented, "You're looking fit."

I laughed. "I have to be," I said. I indicated my clothes. "What do you think I'm wearing this for? Fun?"

He sighed. "Still doing the military thing, huh?" he asked. "Those clothes don't suit you."

"Actually I think they look perfect. I mean, look at these boots." I pointed to the heavy, black-leather monstrosities on my feet. "Steel toes, reinforced, with built-in sheaths." The rest of my uniform was pretty standard for my division. Black pants, olive drab t-shirt, black jacket, black fingerless gloves. I'd forgotten how to dress like a civilian. "I mean, I look like I could be back in our little gang again."

I meant it as a joke, but Sal didn't smile.

"What?" I asked, puzzled.

"Too clean-cut," he murmured, picking a thread off my vest. "Looks unnatural."

"Speak for yourself," I retorted. I was a little aggravated now. "What happened to the ponytail?"

He frowned at me. "You're too military," he said.

I had no response for that. I ducked my head and scuffed my boot on the carpet. "I couldn't duck the draft," I said, embarrassed. "You know that."

"Yes, you could," said Sal. There was no anger in his voice, but his disappointment made me feel ashamed. "You could have ducked the draft, Lee, because you're a—"

"Yes, I know," I interrupted. "But I'd never have been able to serve my country otherwise. I accepted my accidental instatement and I turned out to be good." Impulsively I took his hand. I didn't care if he had a wife and four kids, Sal was my best friend, and I'd touch him if I wanted to. "I'm one of the best, Sal."

Sal shrugged and took his hand away. "But you left us," he said.

I frowned. "I'm sorry."

Sal nodded and sat down at his desk. He looked like an old man now, and that frightened me. Planting his forearms on a pile of papers, he leaned forward and watched me intently. "Jen told me you used the drive-thru."

"Yep!" I said, exaggerating my cheerfulness.

Sal rolled his eyes. "Lee, you do realize this place is practically empty, right?"

"Yeah, but I wanted you to know I was here."

"You just wanted to look a little strange and draw attention to yourself, didn't you?" I nodded. "Of course you did. Anything for attention, right Lee?"

I coughed lightly. "Of course."

Sal sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You're ridiculous sometimes." He fiddled with a pen. "So, I know you're probably not here to catch up . . . ."

"Well, partly," I admitted. I sat in the chair and put my feet up on the one clear space of desk. "This is business _and_ pleasure, my friend. I've missed you."

Sal smiled at last. It was a distracted, bittersweet smile, but it erased years off his face. He relaxed into his chair. "I've missed you too, Lee," he said. "Now, tell me what you want to know."

"I'm looking for the Major."

Sal rubbed the back of his head. His watch glinted in the light, momentarily distracting me. "I thought you military types know how to keep track of your employees," he mumbled.

The Major was not an actual major. Since we were teenagers, it was what we'd called him. I have no idea where he got the name. He was the mastermind of all the illegal activities in Sioné and the surrounding areas. Drugs mostly. Selling cigarettes and booze to kids. I'd bought from him before. He was a genius, really, too smart for a small town like ours. He'd been drafted into the military and gotten involved in some project. The armed forces had a grudging respect for his operation, illegal or not, and they offered him a clean record if he worked with some scientists in Montana or someplace. Upon his arrival he'd fallen off the grid. He could have been sequestered in some secret military research unit, but as far as _my_ division knew, he was gone without a trace. There was a rumor that he'd gotten too friendly with the Reds.

"I haven't seen the Major," said Sal. "I don't want to, either. That guy is . . . bad."

A six-foot-seven bear of a man, the Major could lift poor skinny guys like Sal with one hand and throw him like a javelin. The Major tried to wear clothes that concealed his bulk, but you could see the muscles lying under his dark skin like the cables on a suspension bridge. He didn't speak much, except when he did business. I had liked him a little, because he would share a butt with me, but even I was wary of him.

"He was," I admitted. "No one knows where he is. They said he might be here. That was the last intelligence we received."

Sal tilted his head. One eye twitched. "How do you lose a guy of that size?"

I shrugged. "Only the military, huh?" I joked.

Sal doodled on a spare scrap of paper, pondering on my information. "Well . . . I don't know where he is. But . . . maybe Dee . . . ."

"Oh God," I said, "I haven't thought of Dee in a while." That was a blatant lie. I'd been thinking of Dee more and more over the last few weeks. "Have you seen him?"

"Hell no," said Sal, "Good old Dee doesn't have time to come to this town. You think he'd be ordering a Deluxe from the Cheeseburger Palace menu? Rich guys don't have time for small towns, even if they grew up here."

I chuckled. "No," I said, "probably not. He liked fast food when we were kids, but now I bet he eats caviar every night. Probably has a sexy lady serving him each course. I'm thinking French Maid." I put my hand behind my head in a dramatic pose. Sal bellowed laughter. That was what I loved about Sal. It didn't take much to amuse him.

"Good old Dee," said Sal fondly. His eyes were misty, lost in memories. He looked just like the old Sal I remembered. For a moment, I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. "Remember when the three of us went down to the creek to smoke, and Dee lit your hair on fire, and then he panicked and threw you into the creek?"

We broke into laughter. "I'd forgotten about that," I said. "But I do remember dragging him in after me and ducking him under."

It didn't seem so long ago that we had been a group of misfits hanging together on warm afternoons, our school work done for another blissful summer, our backpacks hanging forgotten in dusty closets. That had been an extremely hot day, probably even hotter than today. Dee had been humiliated, but he had apologized like a gentleman after we both hauled our sodden bodies out of the frigid water. Then we had all laughed, and on that day, it seemed as if the laughter and joy would go on forever.

"Only you could do that," commented Sal. He was turning a pen over and over in his fingers, not looking at me, as if he didn't quite dare to meet my eye. "He had quite a crush on you, Lee. You could get away with _anything_."

"He did not," I retorted.

"He did," he replied. "Remember when we went to prom? He was your date. I mean, yeah, I was there too, but _he_ held your arm on the way in. I just stood next to you. I mean, he even _dressed_ like you, Lee. Black suit, red vest, red tie. All the girls were so jealous. _Dee_ looked pleased, but Samantha Bale and Tina Roux were ready to punch you."

"They thought Dee was _aw'fly_ handsome," I drawled. Sam had been an alright girl, but Tina Roux was a Grade-A bitch. "When the three of us walked in . . . well, we knew Dee could have been a popular kid if we hadn't been dragging him down the entire time."

"He liked you too much, Lee," said Sal. I stiffened; my smile vanished. "He let you drag him down because he wanted to be close to you."

"Don't guilt me, Sal," I said, starting to get mad. Sal's calm expression angered me; for some reason, it ignited that wild, familiar rage I'd unleashed time and time again on my parents and my older sister. I wanted to punch him, to leave bruises on that smooth, olive skin, to wipe that look of solemn wisdom off his face. He was a manager at a Cheeseburger Palace, for God's sake, not some kind of all-knowing oracle. "I didn't _ask_ Dee to have a crush on me."

"You knew, then."

I squirmed in my chair, abruptly interested in the fish-shaped glass paperweight on his desk. The blue and gold dye in the fish's body twisted and flowed along the rippled scales. "I knew," I muttered, still staring at the fish. It seemed to be mocking me. I briefly considered throwing it at Sal. He had reduced me to the teenager I had been not so long ago, the sullen, awkward kid with a cigarette habit and a penchant for violence. "I knew. He . . . we . . . we discussed it."

"And?"

"And nothing!" I barked. I slammed my hand down on the table, making the fish rattle. Sal flinched, his eyes wary. I didn't care. I kept yelling. "We talked, and we talked, and then we said our goodbyes and split up and I didn't see him again until I saw his face plastered on the evening news."

An uncomfortable silence fell between us. Now it was awkward again. I'd hoped the years would ease some of the wounds, making the bad things a little easier to remember, even if I couldn't move on from them. But it seemed to have deepened the resentment. The wounds hadn't healed, they'd turned into scars; old, twisted, bitter things that I'd tried so hard to forget.

"I'm sorry, Sal," I said.

Sal shifted in his seat. "Consider talking to Dee," he said at last. His voice was at least steady again. I was grateful for that. "Dee and the Major got along fairly well. Plus, it'll do you good to see Dee. He's got connections. He's a big man, now. Do you know where he lives?"

"Who doesn't?" I asked with a forced chuckle. "All I have to do is go to Hollywood and look for the house with the huge crowd of rabid fangirls out front!"

We smiled at one another for the last time as I stood up and Sal did the same. We stood facing each other stiffly for a moment, and then Sal held out his arms. I hugged him fiercely. "I'll see you soon," I promised in a whisper. I couldn't let go of my anger, but that didn't mean I wouldn't let Sal know how much he meant to me.

Sal slapped me on the back. "You'd better." He released me. "Good bye, Lee."

"Good bye, Sal." I grinned. "I like your fish, by the way." Without waiting for a response, I left the office.

The same fat cashier I'd startled earlier met me outside Sal's door with a pout on her lips. The other employees looked up as soon as I closed the door, watching me like small, wary creatures watch a predator. Suddenly self-conscious, I scuffed my boots on the floor. I tried to appear like I still felt confident, but their expressions made me uncomfortable. I didn't feel like a teenager anymore; I felt like a kid of ten who has caught the unwanted attention of a stern and irate teacher. "This is for you," said the woman, shoving a bag and a cup at me. She stalked off without wishing me a nice day. I escaped from the Cheeseburger Palace in subdued silence.

The milkshake came in a waxed container. It was cold and good, loaded with sugar. I drank half standing outside the Cheeseburger Palace back entrance, leaning on the whitewashed wall with one boot propped up against the white brick foundation. One of the workers came out with an armload of boxes and gave me a nasty look, so I made a quick getaway down Carter Avenue toward my motel. Once upon a time, a little teenage punk named Lee worked at that very motel, cleaning rooms and organizing laundry for two dollars an hour. Nowadays, I was the guest. I unlocked my door and slipped into the threadbare room. Government allotments for lodging had never been very high, and there was still only one motel in Sioné, so I was stuck. I put the food on the table, took a can of beer from the mini fridge, and cracked it open. _Funny,_ I thought, _Last time I was in Sioné I was too young to buy beer._

 _Old enough to die for your country though,_ spoke up another voice. I ignored it. It was just the memory of my sullen, hateful, rebellious teenage self, an old ghost too stupid and bullheaded to stay dead.

Heaving a sigh, I reached for the phone on the end table and dialed my superior. I waited through two sharp buzzes. There was a click. "Office of General Jameson Gray. How can I help you?"

I groaned silently. I recognized that deep voice. "Charon," I said. "Since when do you answer phones?"

"General Gray is in a meeting. He requested my presence at the phone. His secretary is busy."

I chuckled and twisted the phone cord around in my fingers. "And what happens if he dies while he's in there, Charon? Aren't you bound to him?"

There was a long silence. "State your business," said Charon crisply.

Damn Charon. Couldn't take a joke to save his life. I sighed. "I wanted to tell General Gray that I made it to Sioné. I spoke with my friend Sal. He suggested I go to Hollywood. I'm going to go there as soon as the general gives me clearance."

There was a pause. "Understood."

"Thanks." I peered at my reflection in a spotted mirror that hung over the disheveled double bed and fussed with my hair. "Eh, Charon?"

"Yes, what is it?"

"I'm sorry about the joke. I'm not trying to insinuate that you're . . . inept or something." I stuck my tongue out at my reflection. What the hell was I doing?

Again one of those pauses. I disliked talking to Charon, both over the phone and in person, because he reminded me forcibly of one of those computers, the ones that spoke to you. They always took a second to process your words before calculating their response. Charon was like that. I suppose it was his programming, or discipline, or whatever. But I still hated it. It made him seem like less of a man.

"Good bye."

Charon hung up. I rolled my eyes and slammed the receiver down. Charon's emotionless voice always frustrated me. The very fact of his servitude to the general made me sick. I rubbed the back of my neck with a groan of pleasure. The massage felt good on the tight muscles. Glancing at the Cheeseburger Palace bag, I realized glumly that I didn't feel hungry anymore. Talking to Charon had ruined my appetite. Damn, and I really wanted that Cinnamon Twisty, too. I put the bag in the fridge. The food seemed to be mocking me, much like that stupid fish of Sal's. I flopped down on the bed and threw my arm over my eyes. Oh, Sioné. How I did not miss you.

I couldn't wait for General Gray to call. I just wanted to get out of here. It was too full of memories. Everywhere I went, I thought of the past. On Mercer Street, I'd been beaten by Tina Roux's older brother the day after prom, on Tina's orders. At the Cheeseburger Palace, where there had once been a bar, I had smoked cigarettes with Dee, Sal, and Sal's older brother Jeremy, in the alley out back. At this very hotel, in the laundry room downstairs, Dee and I—

I kicked that thought away. _Shut up_ , my mind ordered. I rolled over on my side and tucked my hand under the pillow. _Come on. Call, for the love of God . . . I can't stay in this town anymore._ Yeah, but I didn't want to see Dee either. His very attitude was enough to drive me crazy. Seeing him again would probably kill me.

Oh well, at least I'd never have to talk to Charon again when I was dead.

When the phone rang ten minutes later, I practically threw myself at it. "Hello?" I said excitedly.

"You have been cleared to transfer." Charon's brisk voice leaked out of the speaker. "There is a train to Hollywood, California, at 6 AM tomorrow. Be on that train, please."

"Thank you, O Travel Agent of Extraordinary Skill," I said dryly.

". . . I do not understand."

"Don't worry about it, Charon, it was a joke. Have a good night."

"Thank you?" Charon sounded confused. My heart instantly went out to him. Poor guy probably hadn't had anybody wish him a good night in years. I liked Charon, just not the way he had to live. He treated every kindness with uncertainty and wariness, as if he expected punishment quick on the heels of any polite thing aimed in his direction. I was never rude to him if I could help it. At first I tried to be his friend, but when I discovered that was impossible, I had to settle for cordiality.

"You're welcome, Charon," I said, trying to be gentle. "Good night."

"Good night."

Charon hung up. I put the phone down and started to undress. I needed at least twenty minutes in the morning to shower and double-check my things, but I wanted to be at the train station early. At least when I was sitting there, on that uncomfortable wooden bench, I could pretend I was a little farther away from my past, and a little closer to Hollywood. Closer to Dee.

As soon as my head touched the pillow, I realized that I really wanted that Cinnamon Twisty.

Sleep could wait. Sloppy fast food, on the other hand, could not.

Yum. Calories.


	2. Chapter 2

I awoke in the darkness at two AM, my heart pounding too fast, my breathing harsh and choked, shrieking in and out of my desperate lungs.

I'd dreamed of the day down at the creek. In my mind's eye I saw the amber sunshine falling through the flawless, emerald-green leaves, and felt it warm my tanned face. I swatted at a mosquito that dared to land near my ankle. I saw my childish fifteen-year-old legs, skinny and birdlike, covered with old, faded denim shorts. They were really too short, I knew, for someone my age. But at fifteen, I'd just wanted to be a kid. I wasn't ready to grow up.

Dee was leaning on the tree beside me, his broad shoulder rubbing up against mine. Sal was above our heads, sitting in the tree, eating an apple and chatting. I saw Dee light the cigarette, cupping his hand around the lighter to keep the wind away. I remembered thinking about that, wondering what it would be like to hold his hand. How it would feel in mine. Hastily I pretended to retie my shoelace to push those thoughts away.

Then, suddenly, I was in the air with Dee's hands clasped around my forearms. Before I could even cry out, I landed in the creek with a huge splash. I gasped and sputtered, spitting up cold, clear water and slimy river mud. I stood up and turned around, my fists clenched, my rage a red, screaming monster in my head, ready to tear Dee apart. But the sight of him standing there, thin and lanky, cigarette hanging on his lip, his eyes huge with shock and apprehension, made me forget all my anger. I laughed, hard, and after a moment, Dee and Sal joined me. We laughed together under that beautiful sun, and when Dee offered his hand to pull me out, I'd taken it.

And pulled him down into the water with me.

He yelled and splashed and flailed, twisting in the water like an eel, yanking on my arm and pulling me down on top of him. We fell together into the water again, shouting, feeling like kids again. "I'm so, so sorry," Dee kept saying, and at last I forgave him and pulled his soggy body up onto the bank. Sal jumped out of the tree and observed us, Dee with his arm around my shoulders, me holding my belly and laughing. But Sal wasn't laughing. His eyes were fixed upon me, and as I looked down at myself, I saw what my mother called "my feminine figure"—my hips had begun to curve, and I was developing . . . elsewhere. Sure, every other girl in my class had the same features; I was a late bloomer. I tried to hide my meager attributes with baggy t-shirts and jackets. But suddenly Dee had stopped laughing too, and now he was looking, and blushing . . . and then I'd punched him, straight in the mouth, and he'd primly offered his jacket without a murmur of complaint.

Reflecting on it, I realized that Sal was right. If I had been any other person in the world, Dee would have cleaned my clock for me. Dee let me get away with everything. And I'd taken advantage of that.

Unable to sleep, I smoked cigarette after cigarette until five, then crawled reluctantly off the bed and stumbled into the shower. The water was cold, but that was fine. It woke me up better than coffee. I cleaned out the fridge and ate quickly, stowing my two remaining beer bottles in my shoulder-bag. As long as no one saw them, they'd be fine. I checked for my badge, my money, and my identification. Once I located them all, I called for a taxi and brought my belongings out into the parking lot. I'd left my key on the table in my room. That was how business was done in Sioné. Get out quietly, but politely. Don't screw everything up for everyone else.

The taxi driver proved to be the guy who had been our school's quarterback in my senior year. He was eager to catch up, for some strange reason. Probably because he thought that, as an adult, I'd forgotten all the times he'd hurt me, had called me a whore for hanging around two guys, had tried to tell Dee that he could have better friends if he ditched us. But good old Dee, impassive, had told Mister Quarterback to go to hell . . .

At 6 the train boarded. I was the first person on. I sat in a single seat and pulled out a book, but it wasn't long before I fell to dozing. The train steadily ate up the miles, putting distance between me and Sal, taking away the same distance between me and Dee. The slight sideways motion was enough to put me to sleep.

The cabin slowly filled up. I awoke not long after drifting off and, bored, starting watching the other travelers. Within an hour, everyone who had boarded at the Sioné stop with me had disembarked, except one young man. I squinted at him. His pale, pasty face was partially obscured by a newspaper, but I could swear he seemed familiar. I stood up and strolled over to him. He didn't move his head, but his eyes followed me. So did the eyes of everyone else in the silent cabin. I stood in front of him. "Excuse me, sir," I said, trying to be polite, "is your name Marcus?"

The man didn't look at me. "Marcus is my brother," he mumbled, turning a page. "I'm Aaron."

"Ah. Aaron." Aaron and Marcus Glass were old acquaintances, Marcus a year older than me, Aaron a year younger. We'd hung out from time to time, usually with Dee around. They were more Dee's friends than mine. "Have you seen the Major lately, Aaron?"

Aaron actually flinched. "No," he said, too quickly, "I haven't."

"I think you're lying, Aaron."

Aaron fixed me with an angry, desperate glare. "Shut up," he said. "Leave me alone." His eyes darted around the cabin, glancing over each of the other passengers in turn. They stared back, as citizens tend to do. Whenever they see something out of the ordinary, I guess they assume it will turn out to be entertaining. "Please."

I wouldn't let go. If Aaron wouldn't help I'd force the information out of him. I needed to know. Aaron and Marcus had served as the Major's messenger boys from time to time. "Aaron, are you going to see the Major?"

"No!" snapped Aaron. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Lee."

"Oh how sweet," I said, "you remembered my name. Been a couple years, hasn't it?"

Aaron was spooked now. His eyes widened. He shrank in his seat. "Go away," he said in a harsh whisper. "He'll kill me."

"Who?" I asked.

Aaron shook his head. His lips were pressed tightly together, and he was actually trembling. "Just stop, okay? I've got stuff to do."

"Aaron, please . . ."

The train rolled to a smooth stop. Aaron rose, snatched his suitcase, and all but bolted from his chair, out of the cabin and off the train. It happened too quickly for me to even follow. I groaned and threw myself back in my chair, rubbing my eyelids with my fingertips. So much for that. I'd have to call General Gray and get him to pick Aaron up, if the stupid rat didn't go into hiding. He knew something. Maybe he'd even been asked to keep an eye on me. If that were the case, it would be best to keep my eyes open.

"Excuse me, Miss?"

I looked up at the speaker, a man in a suit and fedora. "Yeah?"

The man tried to smile. He looked as though he expected a smack. "Miss, don't you think you're a little . . . underdressed . . . .?"

I'd been expecting this. Most women didn't head out-of-doors unless they were wearing an outfit—not just a blouse and skirt but an ensemble—and a matching hat. Several of the other women in the cabin had already given me nasty looks. They would never wear jeans in public; they were "proper" citizens. The role of women in society hadn't changed much in the last hundred years. They may have been allowed jobs to support their families in the midst of this war, but it was obvious that society still expected females to stay at home and clean while their men went off to work and to battle.

The man was still standing beside me. "I'm underdressed because I'm not wearing a skirt?" I asked. He nodded. "Well, that's the perk of being in the military. I'm in the Army, and I'm on an assignment."

The man's eyes widened. He muttered something unintelligible, possibly an apology, and slunk back to his seat. I closed my eyes. My fingertips found their way back to my lids of their own accord. This was going to be a long, long trip.

At the train station just outside Hollywood, I rented a car and drove to Dee's house. My faithful travel agent had given me turn-by-turn directions to the estate. Sometimes I was really grateful for Charon. I would have been lost without those directions. I snorted when my car topped the hill and the house came into view. Estate? This was far grander than an estate. It was a palace, surrounded by a wide, rich green lawn. Very tasteful, though. Very Dee. Modern, showy, but not vulgar. I liked his style instantly. The imposing black gate swung open as I drove toward it. Well, I thought, this is a warm welcome.

The gate may have opened for me, but the door did not. There was a burly man in a sophisticated blue uniform standing before the handsome double doors, and the moment I stepped up onto the wide front porch, he denied my entrance. I politely asked to come in. The guard refused me. I showed my badge. The guard refused me again. I stopped being polite.

"Look," I told him, "I need to come in and see him. You guys opened the gate for me, why won't you let me in the house?!"

"Security assumed you were the expected company. The master of the house is expecting the movie producer, Mister Lucas St. John, and his wife. Those guards will be fired for their incompetence."

I was glad I was wearing my mirrored lenses. The guy couldn't see how mad I was getting. I forced myself to laugh a little. "Oh man, security guards? Dee has gotten _paranoid_ . . ."

"Miss," said the guard, rubbing the bridge of his wide nose, "please leave immediately. You are not the expected company. Your presence here is unauthorized and inappropriate. Do not make me force you out of here."

"I need to see him!" I protested. I was about an inch away from stamping my feel like a little kid having a tantrum. I'm no good at convincing people unless I have the upper hand. "I'm a friend, I promise. We grew up together. He knows me! Just . . . call him! Please?"

The guard growled with frustration and started to speak, but was interrupted by a squawk from the intercom system on the wall behind him. "Who is it?!" a clipped voice demanded. I felt a low tingling in the pit of my stomach. Oh, I recognized that accent all right. "What's taking so long?"

The guard pressed the button on the intercom. "Not your expected company, Sir," he said with strained patience, "You were misinformed. I'll send her away."

"Please do."

"Yes, Sir."

I leaned around the guard's bulk to glare at the intercom. "So it's 'Sir' now, is it?" I asked loudly. Silence. Hopefully, he could hear me. "You've come a long way from cigarettes and pilfered booze in the back alley of Maple's Bar. Remember that time we had to hide behind the dumpster because Maple's boyfriend came looking for us? You about wet yourself out of fear."

The guard remained frozen, possibly in horror at my defiance and daring. I hadn't noticed the camera bolted to the ceiling in the corner, but I did so now. It slowly panned over to look at me. That glass eye was a little spooky. I waited. There was a wash of static. "Lee?" asked the same light voice.

I pushed my sunglasses down to the edge of my nose and made eye-to-lens contact with the camera. "Hello, Dean," I said.

"Let her in," commanded Dean. "Right now!"

The guard threw up his hands. "Go in then," he grumbled. "I give up."

I stepped into the most spacious, refined, gorgeous hall I had ever seen. Dark wooden panels on the walls, velvet curtains, black-and-white tiled floor. Two flights of stairs, one on each side of the room, led up to the second floor. Dean was waiting on the balcony overlooking the front door, his arms crossed and planted on the railing, the picture of leisure. As soon as I saw him, I melted a little. He wore mirrored glasses that seemed to eat up half of his face, but the sight of his features was enough to make my heart clench. I held up my hands. If I had to show emotion, it had better be amusement. Jokes settled my mind. "Gorgeous place you got here," I said. My voice echoed back to me, sounding the tiniest bit uneven. "A tile floor? For a main hall? Dee, are you crazy?"

He smiled. Oh, God, how I loved that smile. It made him so unbelievably handsome, with his white, straight, perfect teeth and full lips. He came down the stairs, taking his time, his hand resting lightly on the carved banister. The stairs curved around the edge of the room in a graceful spiral. He did not run, though I wished he had. I wanted this greeting over with, so we could get down to business. But as impatient as he was, I couldn't keep my eyes off his face and his clothes. Talk about style. He was dressed in classy attire: a spotless suit and a slim black silk tie. His shoes were expensive black leather. I probably didn't make enough money to afford one of his socks.

"Leanne."

That single word, full of a tenderness and warmth I had not expected. Dean held out his arms to me, and I practically threw myself at him. All my self-control seemed to have deserted me. I crashed into him with all the coordination of a drunken sorority girl.

The hug was not a shoulder-slapping, friendly squeeze. It was an embrace, like I was one of his polished little girlfriends instead of a reject from a small town in the middle of nowhere. Nestled into his broad chest, I felt utter peace and serenity for the first time since I joined the military. "Classy digs here, my brother," I said into his crisp white shirt. He smelled of expensive cologne.

Dean released me and took my hands in his. I felt a dull flush rise on my cheeks. Goosebumps rippled along my skin. "It's been a long time, my dear," he said. He took my hand up to his mouth and kissed it lightly, between the knuckles, no more than a brush of his lips. I shivered. Where the hell had he learned manners? As if he hadn't radiated elegance already!

"Stop it," I ordered, but my mouth twitched. I tried reassuring my confidence with another joke. "Do I have to cut my hand off, now?" I asked him.

He tilted his head. "What do you mean?" he said, sounding puzzled.

"Well, I could sell it on the market." I gripped my own wrist in a dramatic death-grip. "I could sell it for a thousand bucks!" I declared. "An authentic hand kissed by the great all-star celebrity Dean Domino! I'd make a fortune!"

Dean offered me a small, polite smile, but I could tell he wasn't amused. My face turned crimson. "Sorry, Dee, that was a terrible joke," I muttered.

"It was," he assured me, taking my hands again, "but I am flattered nonetheless. To think you would even joke about maiming yourself because of me . . . ."

I chuckled despite my embarrassment. Dean smiled graciously and showed me into a small, private office, where he personally served me a glass of brandy. I sank into a leather chair and crossed my legs. I felt so small and shabby compared to him and to his house. "So, Mister Domino," I said, batting my eyelashes, "how's life in the big city?"

"Marvelous," he told me. He handed me the drink and sat in the chair beside mine. "The social elites are simply a pleasure. So many lovely young ladies."

I pushed his shoulder. "You are a whore," I told him, with my typical tact and wit. His resulting smile was predatory and a little sour. "I knew you'd acclimate to stardom life quickly. Fame always suited you, my friend. And Mister Domino? Really? How creative of you."

"My name is homage to my two largest musical influences," he told me loftily, sipping his brandy. Who drinks brandy? I had to chuckle at the absurdity. "Besides. I like it."

"You would," I said, smiling into my glass.

There was a silence. Finally, Dean spoke up. "I missed you, Leanne," he told me. The friendliness and serenity in his voice made me squirm. I toyed with my glass, not wanting to look at him. He wasn't joking or mocking me. This was true emotion from Dean, and it was scary. The only things Dean was serious about were the things that affected him the most. I didn't want to deal with that. I didn't want him to be serious with me. I was afraid.

"I missed you too, Dee," I told my glass.

His hand moved into my field of vision, gently taking me by the chin and forcing me to look at him. I looked up into the pair of bluest eyes I had ever seen. He had taken off his glasses just to make eye contact with me. I supposed I should feel flattered. "I did miss you," he told me quietly. His hand slipped up to my cheek, then withdrew. He sipped his brandy. "So what has Agent Army Girl been up to?"

I shrugged. "Shooting Reds, kicking ass, and dining with beautiful women. What else?"

"Do you commonly talk about yourself?" inquired Dean. One finger stroked the rim of his glass slowly, around and around. His eyes travelled across my face, examining my every feature, but if he looked at my chest, he was subtle about it. "I should love such an opportunity."

I snorted. "You flirt," I said. The corner of his lip lifted, revealing his teeth. "You can't dine with me, Dee, I'm just a grunt. I'm not good for your popularity."

"You hurt me with your words."

"Good. Somebody needs to knock you down a peg."

Dean chuckled and leaned back. "You are keeping me from an important appointment, my dear," he informed me. "Mister St. John is slated to arrive promptly at five PM for dinner. I am the star of his most recent movie. It will be released late next year."

"It's three-fifteen."

"But his beautiful wife arrives before he does," said Dean innocently. "I must keep her company until her husband turns up."

"You are a whore," I said in awe.

"Do not speak your idle vulgarities in front of me, you savage. It is unbecoming."

"What's becoming about a Sioné girl?" I asked, rubbing the back of my neck. I drained my glass. Without a word, Dean took it and refilled it. He also brought a cigar and a pack of cigarettes with him. I eyed him in appreciation. Good service.

"No one from that town is becoming, unless their name is Leanne." He offered me a cigarette, which I took, and lit it for me. Only then did he light his own cigar.

I flapped my hand at him. "Oh, you." I took a deep drag of my cigarette with a sigh of satisfaction. "Thanks."

"No, you," said Dean. "You are here for a reason, and I will not have you hide it from me any longer. What are you doing here?"

His voice had risen, and I winced at the feeling in it. Up until now he had kept a comfortable distance between himself and emotional involvement, but I sensed that restraint slipping. My muscles tensed as I automatically prepared for combat. But that was not Dean's style. He would lash me with his words, drag out all the old skeletons, but he would never hit me. The tabloids would have a field day if he did. No, better to remind me of all the horrible things I'd done to him and make me ashamed, too ashamed to go to the press and discuss his history.

"Calm down, Dee," I said, wary, "can't a girl just say hi to an old friend?"

"You've had years to do that, Leanne." Suddenly I realized that he was furious with me. If I could hear even annoyance in his voice, under his iron self-control, then he was most likely concealing a wellspring of rage and hatred. For a moment I wondered if he actually would hit me.

"Well your doorman is like a Rottweiler," I said. "Big, dumb, and aggressive."

"My doorman did not turn you away." The words hit me like a physical blow. "You have not been within a mile of my door in all the years I have lived here."

"All right, Dee," I mumbled. Abashed, I avoided his gaze. "I'm here because I need to see the Major, and I went to Sioné to locate him. I talked to Sal. Sal suggested I come see you."

Dean looked down his nose at me. "What makes you think I would know where some two-bit drug pusher from that repugnant little slum might be?" he asked scornfully. He clamped his teeth down on the cigar. Smoke coiled up in long, lazy loops toward the ceiling. "I have not spoken to that man since . . . since he and I had an argument. I couldn't have been more than fifteen."

As far as I could remember, the Major and Dean had always gotten along well. "What did you two argue about?" I asked.

"That was a lifetime ago," Dean informed me. "I don't remember."

"Damn. Well . . . I tried."

Dean studied me quietly. He puffed on his cigar and blew out a cloud of smoke, thankfully not in my face. "You must have more evidence than that, Leanne."

"I was not entirely honest with Sal," I admitted. I put my drink on the coffee table and tapped my ashes into a delicate crystal ashtray. "I did have intelligence that the Major had been in Sioné, but I also had reason to believe he'd left about six months or so ago. He was working for some government research program. Scientists from pretty much everywhere; I even hear a rumor that one's from China. But that's probably not true. Military intelligence is an oxymoron, you know."

Dean's chuckle sounded a little forced. His sense of humor and mine differed immensely, unless the jokes were dirty. "Indeed. So, where do I come in?"

I had to take a second to get my thoughts together. I took a deep breath, looked him directly in the eye, and said, "I first had to verify that the Major hadn't actually stayed in Sioné. I figured Sal would know. Pretty sure the guy still smokes some grass. I kept my ears open, and while I was there, I didn't hear anything. He suggested I ask you. I would have done so anyway."

"Why me?"

"Because I happen to know you got a certain golden ticket."

A slow smile spread across Dean's face; he lowered his head and raised his eyebrows. Who, me? he seemed to say. "It was not a golden ticket, my dear, though the invitation was quite . . . lovely."

I continued. "The last we heard, the Major had been snapped up by the Big Mountain Research and DevelopmentCenter. They have a branch working with our military and government. He's busy at work, though they won't tell us what he's working on. If he's even there anymore. The head scientists trade workers like kids trade baseball cards. There's something like two thousand lab monkeys working per division there. He could be long gone and I wouldn't know until I got there."

"What does that have to do with my invitation?"

"It's believed that Frederick Sinclair and one of the scientists at the Big MT did a little . . . arrangement."

"Investigate him, then," said Dean. He extinguished his cigar and tossed it carelessly into the ashtray. The smoldering cigar glared sullenly at me. I ignored it, and its owner's bad temper. "Arrest him. It would do my heart good to see the man in jail."

"I'm not interested in your heart, Dee."

"You never were," Dean shot back.

"Go to hell," I snapped.

"Get to the point, woman!" Dean commanded. He stood up and fixed me with a withering glare. "I grow weary of our talk. My company should be arriving soon."

"I need you to get me into the Sierra Madre, so I can do some investigating. And, if necessary, I can arrest Frederick Sinclair for unauthorized use of experimental technology. If he does have something from the Big MT, the government doesn't know about it, and they'll be pissed. Big MT may be independent, but everything serves the United States Government. I hear your ticket allows you a guest."

"So you want to be my plus-one, is that it?" Dean asked bitterly. "Eight years, darling, since I left, and not a single phone call or letter. Walking back into my life, bold as brass, asking me to do my country a favor . . . turning my life upside-down and threatening my reputation for some interactive pleasure holograms or . . . or . . . automatic toilet cleaners?"

"There's a lot more than toilet cleaners in the Big MT," I retorted. "I'm talking serious technology. Stuff the military needs. Do you see what's going on out there?" I waved my hand in the direction of the windows, streaming beautiful California sunshine. "In Anchorage? In Canada? Here, in your own country? We're so scared of the Reds that we're building underground Vaults to protect ourselves from nuclear annihilation! Do you see what's happening? We need every advantage we can get, Dee."

"Stop calling me that!" he exploded. His mouth drew down in a terrible snarl that made him look ugly and inhuman. I recoiled from the venom in his voice, nearly upsetting my brandy in my haste, and drew my legs up onto the leather seat, pushing myself as far back in the chair as I could be. Dean was tall; he loomed over me like some ghastly grim reaper, an old ghost brought back to life from inside the necropolis that was my memory. "I am not your precious little _Dee_ any longer. I am Dean Domino, singer and entertainer, and some little enlisted bitch is not going to tear me apart again! I won't have it! I won't have you ruining my life again!"

"Dean," I said pleadingly. Every instinct begged me to fight back, to punch him in the mouth, to subdue him as I always could; but he was a full-grown man, and I was . . . still a child. That was the truth. I still acted like a kid in sneakers and school sets. I felt tears prick my eyes. I wiped them away. I could understand his anger, after all. I had treated him appallingly during our last meeting. Dean could hold grudges with a lifelong tenacity, and considering how I'd showed up in his life with no prior warning or apology, I deserved every harsh word that came from his mouth. "I never wanted to hurt you. I never . . . I never wanted that. I just didn't want things to change."

"They didn't," said Dean cruelly. He crossed his arms tightly over his body. His face was deathly white, his eyes dark blue and ferocious. I shivered, fearing he would freeze me to death with his icy wrath while I begged his forgiveness. All Dean had done was brood over me. I had truly hurt him, and that hurt me in turn. "The only thing that changed was my belief in your maturity and your bravery."

"Are you talking about that night in the laundry?"

"I didn't hurt you," Dean snapped. His hands clenched tightly into trembling fists. "You hurt me, and I . . ." Suddenly all the harsh lines in his face smoothed out. His posture relaxed, his arms fell to his sides. Mystified, I searched his face. He blinked and shook his head slowly. "Going over old, hurtful things will not move us forward. I should . . . I should let go."

I timidly offered my hand. "Can we begin again?" I asked him.

He took my hand and planted a kiss on the knuckles, a little more clumsy than before. "Of course, Leanne," he said softly.

"Dean, I just want to say . . ." I paused, swallowed hard, and plunged on, "that I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I was such a stupid little kid. I think . . . I think I've grown up now. At least, I hope so. I realized that I treated you so poorly when we were young. Sal was right; I abused you and I abused our friendship, but you kept coming back."

"I came back because I wanted you." His voice was low and melancholy. "I . . . I was very fond of you, Leanne. You saw me as a brother . . . and all I wanted was to be yours. I desired that more than fame, than fortune. You were . . . everything."

I felt a tear rolling down my cheek, but I was powerless to stop it. Dean brushed it away with his thumb. He said nothing. I was grateful for both small kindnesses. "I was scared, Dee," I mumbled, and then quickly added, "Dean. Sorry. Dean."

He waved this away. "It is a silly nickname, and I do not mind it. It was wrong of me to lose my cool over such trivial things."

"Right. Well . . . I didn't want my feelings to ruin anything. Sal told me, time and time again, that you felt the same way. But I knew you had aspirations, and I had none. I didn't think I'd be good enough for you, and I still don't." Something changed in his expression; a great emotion overwhelmed him in a wave, unsettling him for a moment, and then vanished behind his mask. "I hate that I hurt you, Dean, but I'm glad I denied you. I would have dragged you down."

"I suppose that's a decent apology," Dean commented. He leaned forward, his expression serious, and peered at me over his tightly-interlaced hands. "So . . . in the interest of beginning again and rekindling an old friendship . . . would you like another drink?"

His question surprised a giggle out of me. "I would indeed, good sir."

So we had another drink and a smoke. We reminisced about the good times. Looking back, I recall only a few details. I remember Dean holding my hand and pouring me some wine. We joked and spoke seriously in turn, catching up on everything and anything in our lives. The ashtray slowly filled up with cigarettes; the room grew thick and blue with smoke. At one point, while I attempted to tell a funny story, Dean excused himself and spoke quietly into the phone on the desk.

The wine was sweet and cherry red. I consumed it in moderation, well aware of the three small glasses of brandy I'd already drank. My toleration of liquor was fairly impressive for a woman, and my height and weight had their advantages. I didn't want to be too vulnerable.

Hours flew by. The sunlight faded from the room, and the lamps went on. I didn't care. I wasn't drunk, but I could definitely feel a buzz. Everything faded to a warm, mellow corona of light. To my eyes, Dean's familiar and well-loved features seemed to glow, transforming his handsome face into something ethereal.

Dean told me of the stars he'd met, the stages he'd sung on, the new movie he starred in. I'd already seen previews for it—some dramatic love story musical about a brave American soldier and his beautiful nurse love interest—but I laughed at his stories of days spent filming in Hawaii, drinking cocktails with the finest movie producers and actors and having a prank war with the filming crew. I couldn't imagine Dean pranking anyone. Seems he did know how to have fun.

The only story I didn't like was the one he told me about Vera Keyes, the actress and singer who played the nurse. He spoke of her with enthusiasm. They had been very close during the movie's production. They had been very close during the movie's production. I had read of their "torrid affair" in the gossip magazines, but at the time, both parties had denied any type of relations. I didn't like thinking of Dee with Vera. It made me a little jealous.

At twelve-thirty, I blearily realized that I was a little drunk. My glass was empty yet again. I glanced at the clock, wondering when it had gotten so late. Dean noticed my movement. "It is rather late," he said. There was just the barest hint of a slur to his words. Strangely enough, his faux accent had deepened. "Perhaps you would like to stay the night?"

"If you don't mind."

He swept his arm around in an elegant bow. A lock of dark hair escaped its gel confinement and brushed along his high forehead. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to play with it or tear it out of his scalp. "It is no trouble at all, my dear."

I attempted to stand. The world wobbled a little; I stumbled forward and overbalanced. Dean, of course, was there to rescue me, catching me in his arms right before I fell. He pulled me close and peeked anxiously into my eyes. "Are you all right, Leanne?" he asked.

Thrilled by the concern in his voice, I giggled. "Why yes." I rested my head on his chest. He smelled wonderful, the perfect combination of smoke and cologne. His heartbeat quickened for a moment, and then settled into a calm percussion. "Just a little dizzy."

His arms tightened around me. I hugged him back. The velvety press of his shirt against my face was comforting. I lifted my head to look him in the eye. We regarded one another for a moment, as if trying to memorize every aspect of the other's appearance. Then Dean bent down and kissed me, softly, and I let him. This time I didn't punch him in the mouth. In fact, I kissed him back. When we broke apart, he touched his lips. "Was that so hard?" he asked.

"Not at all." I chuckled. "I guess I'm not such a coward anymore, huh?"

"You were never a coward," Dean said. He caught me by the chin. Startled, I lowered my eyes. "You've always been brave. I've always admired that bravery."

"Then I guess tonight is a night of bravery." I laced my hands behind his neck and, with a deep breath, forced myself to look earnestly into his face. The lamplight cast his features into partial shadow, making him look both handsome and mysterious. All the love and goodwill and friendship I felt for him, I tried to convey in a single tender gaze. "Be my friend, Dean."

His hand brushed over my hair, delicate and graceful. The man was good with his hands. He reached out to my face, but thought better of it and rubbed my forearms instead. The massage felt incredible. "I am your friend, Leanne. If you'll be mine."

"Of course, Dean."

He kissed me again and buried his face in my neck. His breath on my throat sent shivers down my spine. "Perhaps you should get some rest. You're bound to be tired."

By that point, sleep was the least of my priorities. "I don't want to," I said. The words came out in a whine. Then, as an afterthought, I added, "I want to stay with you. Please?"

He smiled into my skin. "Whatever you say."

I learned a lot that night about friendship. Some friendships are built to last, no matter how much time passes. I realized that you never stop loving and missing a person. The years just deepened the way I felt about Dean; I hid it far beneath the surface of course, busying myself with other goals and concerns, but I could never truly erase that love. That need. I couldn't hide it the rest of my life. Dean may have been a selfish bastard at times, obsessive and moody, possessive and jealous, but he cared for me in a way that no one else had. We revived an old friendship, and later on, when the night grew cold and unfriendly, I think we both learned a little about love and desire. I realized that there's nothing wrong with finding comfort in desire. I found comfort in Dean. As I closed my eyes for the last time before sleep claimed me, it occurred to me that there might be redemption for me in him, too.


	3. Arrangements

I awoke the next morning to a room full of sunshine and warmth. At first I was confused about where I was. The room seemed too clean and bright for a cheap hotel room. I sat up carefully, wincing at my headache. The blanket fell away from my body, and I realized that I wasn't wearing anything. The night came flooding back. I remembered everything. A blush spread across my face. I wrapped the blanket as tightly around myself as I could and cuddled into the mattress.

The door opened. It was Dean, clad in a red bathrobe with black trim. Those had always been his favorite colors. Two ornately-drawn cursive Ds flashed at me from the cloth. Classic Dean. He wanted everyone to know who he was and where he came from. He'd even go so far as to monogram a bathrobe.

When he saw that I was awake, his gaze softened. "Good morning, Leanne."

I tried to smile. "Good morning, Dean," I said. "What time is it?"

"Ten thirty." He perched on the edge of the bed, smoothing out his robe as he did so. "You were tired. I let you sleep."

My blush deepened. I didn't like the way Dean was leering at me, as if I were some kind of prize. I was not a trophy, and I refused to let him think so. "Uh . . . how long have you been awake?"

"Only about an hour. I made breakfast."

"You can cook?" I asked, shocked.

His only response was a snicker. "I do know how to do some practical things, Leanne. I haven't had a butler forever, you know."

I sat up, careful to keep the blanket wrapped around me. Dean's eyes slowly ran up and down the concealed curves of my body. My shirt was lying discarded on the chair across the room, my jeans near Dean's feet. I leaned around him and snagged the pants by a belt loop, pulling them under the covers with me. I wriggled into them with Dean looking on, a faint expression of amusement on his face. It took a few moments, but I eventually got the jeans buttoned and zipped up. "Hand me my shirt, Dee?" I asked.

Much to my displeasure, he smirked and stayed where he was. "Surely you can get it yourself?" he purred.

Oh God, that voice. It was enough to send a tingle of electricity crackling up and down my spine. I crossed my arms over my bare chest. I didn't want him to see the goose bumps that had broken out along my skin. "Please," I said.

Dean was unwilling to comply. He crossed his legs. As he did so, his bathrobe opened, revealing part of his pale torso. I felt my cheeks heat up again, but I kept my cool.

"Surely," he drawled, "you're not shy after last night? Come, now, Leanne—"

"Dean. Stop."

The smirk vanished immediately. He ducked his head and coughed. "My apologies." He retrieved my shirt, turned away, and waited patiently until I was decent before facing me. "Do you have other clothes? You can shower." He gestured toward the bathroom door.

As a matter of fact, I did have my clothes. I hadn't checked into a hotel before coming to Dee's. At the time I'd figured I could do it afterwards, unaware I'd be spending the night with Dean. "Uh, yeah. In the trunk of my car, there's a suitcase."

"I'll send the doorman to get it. He moved your car to the garage last night."

"Thanks, Dee." Dressed, I clambered out of the bed and hugged him. He stiffened for a moment, then relaxed and put his lips to my hair. His breath on my forehead was soothing. I kissed his cheek, my nose full of his scent. His hand brushed my cheek as we broke apart.

"I'll bring your suitcase upstairs," he told me. "It will be right outside the door when you come out. Shower quickly; we have business to discuss."

"Five minutes," I promised him.

His eyebrow rose. "You're a woman, is that possible?"

"I'm Agent Army Girl, remember? Anything's possible for me." I headed for the bathroom and left Dee standing in his bedroom with a bemused smile on his face. I could hear him humming as he left the room, closing the door behind him.

Dean's bathroom was all white and blue tile, glass brick partitions, and chrome. Stripping, I showered quickly, using some sweet, fruity shampoo that probably cost a hundred dollars a bottle on my unruly hair. True to my word, I was out in five minutes, and once I had wrapped myself in a fluffy white towel (also monogrammed with the double D), I crept out into the bedroom and retrieved some clothes from my suitcase. I dressed in the new clothes and, deciding I was presentable, made my way downstairs for breakfast.

Smells invaded my nose as soon as I reached the head of the stairs. I inhaled deeply: coffee, bacon, bread. Normally I didn't eat much, but today I was especially hungry. _Got a good workout_ , I thought to myself, and then winced. Better not think too hard about that.

The sound of Dean singing drifted up to me. He sounded . . . good. Better than good. Like Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby, singing together in a kind of beautiful harmony. I'd heard his cover of _Something's Gotta Give_ , and I had to admit, he mimicked Crosby's voice quite well. But on his own . . . he was amazing. Why cover the greats when he could be a great?

I entered the spacious kitchen and beheld the object of my musings standing before the stove, frying eggs. He didn't turn around, but I saw the corner of his lips twitch upward in a smile. I sat at the counter, where two cups of coffee stood steaming. I grabbed one. "Breakfast, dear Leanne," said Dean, sliding a plate heaped with eggs and bacon across the bar at me. The smell was heavenly.

"Stop the presses," I joked, a forkful of eggs in my mouth, "Dean Domino can do something practical!"

"Don't talk with your mouth full," ordered Dean. He cut up a piece of bacon and chewed slowly, chasing his bite with a sip of coffee. I swear he never stopped smirking the entire time. "It is unbecoming."

"Oh fine, Mister Prim and Prissy," I grumbled, tearing into some toast.

"Savage," he retorted.

"Asshole."

"What did I tell you about swearing in my presence?" he asked with admirable patience.

"I believe you begged me to tell you when you acted like a fussy old woman so I could put you in your place." I grinned at his dumbfounded expression.

"You are impertinent," he told me, rolling his eyes and huffing.

He even looked like a fussy old woman when he was pouting. He stuck out one lip in an obviously unconscious gesture and narrowed his eyes at me. The expression was so comical, yet so Dee, I had to smile and ignore the comment. Shrugging, I said, "Someone has to keep you humble, Dean."

"Leanne, someone has to keep you acting your age instead of a boy of six. Might I suggest a nurse? Or a parole officer?"

"Hey!"

Dean's chuckle was rich and dark. I shivered. Thoughts leapt into my mind that I forcibly suppressed. Seduction was Dean's middle name, but I couldn't give into it. "You annoy me, I annoy you," he said. Smug satisfaction was written in every line of his handsome face. His jaw twitched as he stifled a smirk.

"You sanctimonious bastard."

"You irritating, immature, whiny, wretched little _girl_."

I gaped at him. Though his tone was stern, his eyes danced. He sipped his coffee and tried even harder not to snicker.

"Screw you, Dean."

Dean winked at me over the rim of his cup. "When?"

I groaned. "Just hush."

"As you wish," he agreed.

We sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. A clock on the wall ticked quietly to itself. Birds tweeted outside the windows, welcoming the world to a brand new day under the California sun. I love birds. They're so free, taking off from wherever they want, whenever they want, without needing to worry about hazardous fuel or boring maintenance checks.

"Leanne."

My name, spoken in a voice like velvet, brought my attention back to Dean. He was completely grave now, his gaze intent, his body set. "We need to talk, Leanne."

"About?"

"About the Madre."

I swallowed hard. I didn't want to look at Dean. I was as afraid of rejection as a girl asking the cute guy in her math class to prom. "Oh, right."

Dean put his hand over mine. "Relax, Leanne," he said, "I'm going to take you with me. But only on certain conditions."

A weight rolled off my heart; suddenly, I could breathe again. I beamed. "Thank you, Dean," I said happily. "I'll do just about anything."

"Is that _so_?" Dean inquired, winking.

"Shut up," I groaned.

"Very well." A smile touched his lips. He drank coffee and cleared his throat. "First of all, you should take note that Frederick—Mister Sinclair to you—has invited me to stay at the Madre for one month before the private ceremony, which takes place precisely two weeks before the Gala Event. The Gala Event will be on the twenty-third of October. At that point, the Madre will be open to the public, but before then, it shall serve as a vacation spot for a few of Frederick's select friends."

"Why do you get to move in a month before that?"

Dean's smile widened, but it was not a kindly expression. It was more like an animal baring its teeth. "Because I introduced the lovely Vera to my _dear_ friend Sinclair; if not for me, they would not be so happy together."

I could think of no scathing, sarcastic, or humorous reply to that claim, so I simply said, "Dean, you're ridiculous."

"I know. Now. My private invitation, which came attached to my 'golden ticket,' invites me to arrive on the first of September. I will be staying in the Madre's residential district. You will have your own room. But do not think I will be lazing about all day, oh no. I am part of the entertainment that the guests will enjoy on both the night of the private ceremony and the Gala Event. Vera and I will be busy at work, and she has planned a few little . . . private parties . . . for the three—four, now, with you—inhabitants of the Madre. There will be other guests as time goes on."

"This is all fascinating, Dean," I said, trying to be patient, "but what are your terms?"

Dean held up one long finger. "Silence," he commanded. I rolled my eyes and obeyed. Dean was so pushy. "I'm getting to it. These things are important, Leanne. I expect you to listen." He glared at me to make sure I was paying close attention. I cupped my ears with my hands. Dean scowled. "Stop that. Listen and be quiet, and enough sass out of you for one morning."

"Oh really?" I asked with a wink.

"Yes, Leanne." He threw up his hands, exasperated but smiling. "How old are you?"

"Twelve," I said innocently. I knew he couldn't resist my meager charms.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I despair of you," he said haughtily. "Number one. In the presence of others, you are my closest and dearest friend—"

"Only around others?"

"Leanne!" Dean snapped. Startled, I fell silent. "You know that you are always my closest and dearest friend, the woman I l—" he froze, cleared his throat, and said more quietly, "you are someone important to me, all right? But to everyone else, you are not an investigator. No Agent Army Girl activities in front of others. _Especially_ Sinclair. He does not need to know your true reason for coming to the Madre.

"Second, I expect your business to be complete by the time of the Gala Event. I will not stick around all winter waiting for you to finish. I have tours starting in November. Besides. When the Madre is stuffed full of unwashed, whiny, uncultured, vulgar tourists, it will be impossible to conduct any type of investigation. Security will be fully hired by then, and all the cameras will have been hooked up. Try sneaking into the kitchens or the china closet with a guard blasting you to bits."

I winced. "Thanks for the image. Any more requests?"

"Oh I'm just getting started. I also expect you to _dress_ as a lady does. If you are to act like one, you must dress like one. None of the other women will wear boots and vests and mirrored lenses. Consider it like this; if you cannot see Vera Keyes wearing it, don't wear it yourself."

"And why should I consider Vera Keyes my fashion standard?" I demanded, smacking my hand down on the table. "That polished little starlet never spent six months hunkered down in a bunker buried in the Anchorage snow!"

"Most women haven't," said Dean calmly. "You are a, ah, _unique_ individual. An accidental draftee because a mistake with a RobCo terminal changed your life. You are not the same kind of woman as Vera. But Sinclair expects you to be. Vera would not have had enough bravery in her delicate little soul to accept her position and enter boot camp. She would have been an unfit female test case."

Flattered, I scratched my chin and drew aimless patterns on the countertop with my finger. "I was proud to serve my country," I said quietly. "When that machine drew my name . . . it was frightening. I hadn't even applied for the Women's Air Corps, let alone the Women's Army Battalion. But I was glad it happened. Meant to be, you know?"

Dean nodded. He rubbed my hand, and I leaned against his chest, my shoulder braced against his collarbone. "Shall we move to the living room?" he asked.

"Please. These stools are not as comfortable as they look."

We abandoned our plates and sat down on a plush couch in the living room. Dean insisted upon sitting beside me so he could put his arm around my shoulders. I was uneasy about this. What would happen if I got mad at him again? It would be a shame to bruise his lovely skin. Despite my misgivings, I relaxed into the soft upholstery and into Dean's warm and solidly reassuring frame. Weariness descended upon me as Dean resumed his speech.

"Anyway, I _do_ expect you to wear dresses. I know you probably have none, but that's what a paycheck and the military are for, correct?"

I snorted. The idea of walking up to General Gray's desk and blithely asking for a thousand dollars in dress money seemed preposterous. I would have considered it if I didn't think he'd either laugh me out of the office or start yelling at me (or worse, get Charon to teach me a lesson). "If you think the government will buy me dresses, Dean, you're crazy."

"You can always try."

"True. But be prepared for rejection on that request."

"I'll cover some of the costs . . . for a fee of my own."

Surprised, I turned to look at Dee. He smirked back at me. He stroked my forearm with one finger, leaving a trail of tingling, cold skin wherever he touched. "Stop that, you pig," I said, annoyed.

"As you wish." His hand halted; he adjusted his hold on my elbow and went on. "I will not have you embarrassing me in front of Frederick and Vera. No rude questions, no suspicions, no pulling your badge on employees or interrogating the gardener."

I smiled. "No problem, Dean."

I hadn't planned on asking a gardener. What did they know? I was going to ask a cook, a waiter, or a construction worker for some dirt on Sinclair and his girlfriend. Electricians, plumbers, and handymen had their ears to the wall, sometimes literally _inside_ the walls. Line cooks, the easily ignored class of the kitchen world, made it their jobs to cater to the personal tastes of their employers. Waiters knew _everything_. They went everywhere, standing invisible at tables where secrets were discussed. Snobby rich folk never thought twice about talking in front of waiters. They thought they were safe as long as the next table over didn't hear them.

Dean tapped me lightly on my head. "I said pay attention," he said. Then, before I could react, he swooped down and kissed me on the cheek. I made a face and scrubbed the skin with my sleeve. Where the hell had _that_ come from?

As if he had read my mind, Dean said dryly, "The look of blank confusion on your face when you're busy thinking is quite endearing, Leanne. It's as if all your brainpower is spent forming cohesive thoughts."

I growled at him and punched his shoulder, softening the blow at the very last second. He raised one eyebrow and said nothing, but suddenly I had the feeling I'd just proved his point. "Just finish," I grumbled.

"Fourth—or is it fifth?—I _demand_ that you go nowhere in the Sierra Madre that you are not allowed to go. If something is still under construction, stay away from it, unless Frederick takes us with him. And it must be _us_ , because my sixth request is that you go nowhere without me as your chaperone. Snooping around and skulking in hallways is inappropriate."

"God, Dean, you're such a control freak."

"These are my terms," replied Dean coolly. "Accept them or fly back to WashingtonDC."

My rebellious side screamed at me to refuse, but I knew I couldn't. I had to play nicely with Dean if I wanted to look for that technology in the Sierra Madre. If I had an extra month to investigate, I might even find the Major. Dean was _my_ golden ticket. What could I do but agree? He had me over a barrel. My success hinged on his whim and my cooperation.

Swallowing hard, I offered my hand and said, "I can agree to your terms, Dean. Are there any more?"

Dean accepted my handshake, sealing our contract and my fate. "I believe that's about it. As long as you dress properly, act properly, and refrain from embarrassing me in front of Sinclair, I can see no reason why I wouldn't take you with me. However," he raised his hand for emphasis, "if you _do_ embarrass me, I'll send you home."

It hurt my pride to murmur, "Fine."

"All right then." Dean swiftly released me and stood up. I remained on the couch, stunned at the sudden loss of cozy body heat beside me. My eyes snapped open. Lonely and wide awake, I stood and stretched.

"Go get your things," Dean told me, "I rescheduled my dinner for an early lunch. You cost me hours of free time, my dear. Mister St. John must be appeased today."

"Oh, no," I said. My voice sounded faint to my own ears. My hands crept up to my hair and tugged of their own accord, sending bolts of bright pain into my head. "I'm so sorry. I forgot. You were supposed to have dinner . . . ."

Dean seized my hands. "I caught up with someone important instead," he said firmly. "It was no trouble. I wasn't in the proper _mood_ to deal with Lucas and his nagging wife. She does not necessarily fit my, ah, _specific_ tastes in women." He released my hands and added, "She is a lovely woman, but not _nearly_ as lovely as you."

"Thanks, Dee."

We stood for a moment, staring at each other, until Dean finally sniffed and brushed off his shirt. "You should pack up," he said quietly.

I did as I was told, running up to Dean's room and throwing my dirty clothes in a laundry bag. After double-checking my belongings, I hurried down to the front door with my suitcase in hand.

Dean was standing at the front door, waiting for me. He folded me into a brief hug. "Do not be late for dinner," he ordered. "And you don't need to bring this." He slipped the suitcase out of my hand. "I'll bring it back up to your room."

"Thanks, Dean."

He walked me to the front door and opened it for me. My rental car stood, idling, in front of the house. Dean took me by the shoulder and said, "Now, listen. My lunch will run a little _long_ , most likely. Lucas St. John is a notorious chatterer, and he packs away quite a bit of booze. After lunch I have a meeting with my agent. Come back at nine tonight. We have plans to make."

"All right."

Dean smirked and kissed my cheek. "Get lost."

I paused halfway down the stairs and turned back to Dean. He cocked his head. I threw up my hands. "What the hell am I supposed to do in Hollywood for ten hours?" I asked.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Leanne? This town was _built_ to cater to _tourists_ like you. Go shopping. Do some sightseeing. I am not a tour guide. You'll think of something. You're creative."

Groaning, I made my way to my car and drove down the tree-lined path to the gate. As I rejoined the world at large and became just one more driver on the wide road into the heart of Hollywood, I realized that I would need to call the general. He might have orders for me, and I needed to ask about my money. There was nothing in my current budget that would cover expensive outfits.

I stopped at a convenience store to use the payphone. As I plugged in the money and lifted the receiver, I prayed I wouldn't have to talk to Charon.

Mercifully, the general's real secretary answered the phone. "Office of General Jameson Gray. How can I help you?"

"Stacy, it's Leanne Rhynes."

Stacy's voice immediately changed tone and mood. "Oh! Lee! How good to hear your voice!"

"Good to hear you too, Stacy."

"We've missed your smiling face around the office," said Stacy. "But you didn't call to catch up, did you? You want to talk to the General."

"Of course. Thanks, doll."

Stacy's bubbly laugh leaked out of the phone. " _'Doll?'_ Did you pick that up from Mister Domino?"

I silently cursed at myself for yet again using those stupid endearments. Guess I couldn't entirely destroy the Sioné part of me. "No, Stacy, I picked it up from home. That's the way we talk down there. Everything there is 'doll,' 'darlin,' and 'howyadoin.'"

"Did Mister Domino talk that way too?"

I chuckled briefly. "Yes, Stacy, he talked that way. He didn't always sound like an impeccable British peacock. Stardom's gone to his brain. He used to talk as plain as I did. Plainer, 'cause there's nothing complex in that head of his." _Except seduction_ , I added silently to myself.

Stacy sounded doubtful of my claim. "I can't imagine him talking like a hick," she said. "Are you teasing me?"

"I'm a _hick_ now, am I?" I demanded, mock-affronted. "Since when?"

Stacy giggled. "Oh, _you_ ," she said. "Hang on; I'll connect you to the general."

I liked Stacy. She was always cheerful. She even made grumpy old Charon crack a grin now and then. I hummed to myself as I waited for Gray to pick up.

There was a click, and then a male voice growled, "Hello?"

General Gray is the most stereotypical Army guy I could think of, an older man with a severe gray buzz-cut, a gravelly voice, and a bad temper. He smoked expensive Cuban cigars. I wasn't too fond of him, but since I'd been assigned to his unit for the investigation, I had to live with him.

"Hello, General," I said, "this is Leanne Rhynes reporting in."

"Where the hell have you been, Rhynes?!" the general yelled. I winced and held the phone a few inches from my ear. General Gray was the type of man whose volume never descended under the level of a bellow.

"I called Charon the day before yesterday, sir," I said, fervently praying Charon hadn't forgotten to relay my status to our superior.

"And what have you been doing since then? Sharing cocktails with your pansy singer friend and collecting makeup tips?"

"Huh?" I said, showcasing my vast intelligence in a single monosyllabic utterance. "Dee's not, um, that way, sir. And I don't think he knows how to put on makeup any better than me."

"I don't care, Rhynes," rumbled Gray. "What do you want?"

"Well, sir, I convinced Dee—Mister Domino, that is, Sir—to escort me to the Sierra Madre Casino. He'll be leaving for the Madre about a month and a half before the casino opens, and he'll be staying there until the Gala Event on the twenty-third of October. That gives me six weeks to investigate Mister Sinclair's technology."

"And what about that scientist?" There was a rattle of papers on the other end. "Philip Koehler?"

It took me a moment to realize he was referring to the Major. "Oh! Mister Koehler." I'd only heard the Major's real name about half a dozen times. It was still peculiar to me. "Well hopefully Mister Koehler will be at the Sierra Madre, sir. And if not, perhaps Mister Sinclair will know where we can find him."

"That's a lot of hoping, Rhynes."

I took a deep breath and primed myself for the upcoming debate. I had only one shot to make my case. "Sir, if I go to the Sierra Madre, I can kill two birds with one stone. There will be no need to send in an undercover operative. Mister Domino is friends with Mister Sinclair. He knows Miss Vera Keyes quite well, too. I can interrogate Mister Domino and use his information to get close to Mister Sinclair. Once I have a confession from him and the name of his associate at the Big MT, we can arrest them both and seize the technology for the military."

Gray was silent. I ran through some scenarios while I waited for his reply, trying to cover myself and prepare for whatever direction the conversation turned. The moment stretched out long, nearly tearing me to pieces with anticipation. I was just congratulating myself on being adequately prepared when he finally spoke.

"All right, Rhynes," he grunted. "Go with your singer. Get in, get out, and be quiet while you do it. The last thing we need is a public relations disaster."

I opened my mouth and closed it again like a fish. I was _not_ prepared for cooperation. "Thank you, sir?" I squeaked.

"Anything else, Rhynes?"

Oh boy. Here we go. "W-well," I stammered, "I do need some uh . . . some d-dresses . . . for the events and such . . . I mean I could always take care of it, sir, but I mean—"

The general's voice, full of strained patience, interrupted me before I could start blabbering. "Rhynes?"

"Uh, yes, sir?"

"Do you need money?"

"Yes, sir."

". . . All right. Let's talk funding."

I couldn't believe my good fortune. The general promised me a check for several thousand dollars, to be delivered to the home of Dean Domino by some courier from the Army base in Santa Monica at six PM that night. How he had the power to authorize such a sum from across the country, I'll never know. I suspected this was a covert deal. Military couriers didn't typically perform such menial tasks. This assignment must be more important than I thought. After vowing to call and alert the general to my whereabouts, I hung up and went on an adventure into the city of fame and action.

I liked Hollywood. It was a lot bigger than Sioné, plenty of room to stretch my legs and explore new territory. The walls and windows of the small shops were decorated with posters for various singers and actors: Danny Parker, Paul Clooney, Joey Baxter, Rosemary Horton, and Dean Domino, of course. I browsed some record stores, and checked out some price tags in a local boutique. The formalwear was more expensive than I'd anticipated. At noon I was struck by a perverse desire to shop, and purchased some souvenirs for Sal, Dee, Charon, and Stacy. Mindful of my orders, I checked in with Stacy at one, and again with Charon at four.

Charon had news for me. That was highly unusual. I'd never heard him say so much at once. He told me I had a meeting with some RobCo representatives on the second of July. No arguments, no rescheduling. When I questioned him, he refused to tell me why. I asked who had set up the appointment, which was thankfully a question he could answer. According to him, the RobCo people had requested it! What the hell did RobCo want with me? Flummoxed, I thanked him for his message and hung up. I found a secluded little park and claimed a bench, where I sat and smoked for a few hours in thoughtful, and unaccustomed, silence. I did not get any closer to an answer.

When seven-thirty rolled around I regretfully left my bench and got into my car. I turned the key, checked the gas levels, and sighed. Government gas-cards weren't enough for a full tank. Prices had abruptly skyrocketed in the last six months from four dollars a gallon to over twenty-five. It was putting one hell of a strain on the economy. Most people were flocking to Chryslus to buy one of their new nuclear cars. Why couldn't RobCo work on something useful, like a solar-powered vehicle that didn't cost a fortune? Everyone was hemorrhaging money just to get to work in the morning. It just seemed to be another thing going wrong in the world. By the time this war was over, even the government would be broke.

Dee's house looked even more beautiful in the evening, illuminated in every window with soft, flickering lights. I switched off the car and sat outside the gate, watching the house and wondering about what plans Dean and I had to make. At last, a small, expensive car crept out of the gate and roared onto the road with a squeal of rubber. I took that as my signal to enter the premises. I drove through the gate and parked out front. The doorman let me in without any fuss and directed me to the small office I'd seen the night before.

Dean was sitting behind the desk with his tie undone and his hair in disarray, rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand and drumming on the desk blotter with the other. His glasses lay discarded on the desk, his jacket tossed carelessly over a chair. The cigarette in his mouth was marked by deep indentations from his gritted teeth. He looked so frustrated that, at first, I was apprehensive to approach him. I closed the door and crept halfway into the room. "Dean?" I whispered.

He looked up. "Hello Leanne," he said quietly. He tried to smile. "Did you enjoy your tourist activities?"

"I shopped," I muttered, shamefaced.

Dean's eyebrow rose. "Oh? You, shopping? Do tell."

"I bought souvenirs," I confessed.

"That makes it even worse." Dean mashed his cigarette into an ashtray. "What did you purchase?"

"Does it matter? We need to get down to business."

"It matters to me," said Dean, as though it should be obvious. "Everything you do matters, my dear."

"For my . . . friend . . . Stacy, I bought a flower inside a glass ball. It's a knick-knack. She likes that sort of thing." Dean harrumphed, but I continued. "For Charon, I don't know what he likes so I bought him a knife."

"Who is Charon?" asked Dean. His voice was so free of emotion, I squinted suspiciously at him. Could the great Dean Domino be jealous?

"He's my superior's . . . assistant." I didn't want to use the word "slave." It made me uncomfortable. "He doesn't talk much, so I just bought him a weapon. And I bought Sal an octopus."

I didn't think it was possible for Dean's eyebrows to rise any higher, but they did. "An _octopus_?"

"A glass one. He already has a fish, but I thought it needed a friend."

Dean coughed. "Very well." He stood up, ran his hands through his hair, and poured drinks. "Time to discuss our plans. You should stay here for a few days and buy your clothes. You'll need at least four formal dresses, and plenty of casualwear."

"Dean, there should be a check coming in—"

"What, do you mean this?" Dean dipped into his breast pocket and withdrew a slim sheet of paper. I could just see the official United   States seal on its face. He waved it before me like a magician's medallion, and then offered to me.

I reached for it. He withdrew the check at the last second, just beyond the extent of my grasping fingers. I frowned. "Come on, Dean, give." A smirk slowly unfolded on Dean's face. He held the check teasingly just above my head. Humiliated and exasperated, I jumped for it, and he pulled it away from me. "Come _on_ , Dee!" I fumed. "We're not kids anymore! Quit it!"

"What's the matter, Leanne?" he purred.

A shiver raced through me, leaving my entire body tingling. "Dean," I said, adopting a calmer and more reasonable tone, "please give me the check." He remained stubbornly uncooperative, but his smirk widened into an arrogant grin. "For God's sake, Dean!" I jumped again. I missed, of course, and stumbled upon landing. Dean caught me easily, steadying me and pressing me into his chest. His eyes were gleaming. I stiffened, painfully aware of his extreme warmth. My heart seemed to skip a beat. "D-Dean . . ." I stuttered.

"Yes?" he asked, kissing my jaw. My mouth twitched.

"Please," I whispered.

"Hmm . . . ." He tucked the check into my jacket pocket and lifted me by my waist. I squeaked. I had no idea Dean could lift my bulk, but he did so effortlessly, swinging me around and setting me against the wall. He placed his hands on either side and leaned into the wall, trapping me between his arms.

"Dean, for the love of God," I said. He loomed over me with that damnable grin plastered across his face. I placed my hand flat on his chest, intending to push him back, but when he kissed me again I grabbed a fistful of his shirt instead, pulling him closer. He complied at once, burying his hands in my hair and trailing his lips down my throat. I couldn't breathe. My brain had short-circuited. What the hell could I do? I was trapped between lust and duty.

"Dean," I said. The word came out in a tiny, trembling sigh. He did not respond. "Dean," I said, a little more forcefully, "stop."

Immediately he released me and stepped back. "But of course." The shine in his eyes was gone; he recovered his businesslike composure. I blinked, dismayed. The heat drained from my body, leaving me hollow and empty. Dean sat down at his desk and pulled out a cigar as if he had not just been busily engaged in seduction.

_How the hell does he look so unfazed?_ I wondered. _How does he turn it off so easily?_ Confused, and a little hurt, I sat down in front of his desk, snatched the glass of brandy, and drained it. The liquor was like a ball of fire blooming in my belly, and it served as a fantastic distraction. "Dee, let's talk dates and times."

"September first. My arrival at the Sierra Madre Casino. August thirtieth, the day you should have your bags packed and ready."

"I have a meeting with RobCo on July second," I told him.

Dean paused. Little trails of smoke issued from his nostrils. "Oh?" he said slowly, "that is unusual."

"Tell me about it. I have to fly back to DC and meet with them. Charon says no arguments."

"Charon speaks and you obey?" inquired Dean.

"I have to. His word comes from my superior, General Gray. I'm flying back to DC in the morning, Charon says."

"Excellent," said Dean dryly. "Perhaps my life can go back to normal for a while."

"Go to hell."

He waved his away. "Life will not be average for a long time, my dear, and it has nothing to do with you."

My curiosity got the best of me. "What were you irritated about?" I asked. "When I walked in, you looked ready to punch someone."

The humor vanished from Dean's face as though someone had flipped a switch in his head. He snorted and toyed with a heavy gold bracelet around his wrist. "I was set up to tour various casinos in Las Vegas starting on the first of November. The biggest venue, the Lucky 38, cancelled. There are rumors that the 38 cannot afford live entertainment. I fear it may be going under."

I cursed under my breath, stunned. This was grim news. It spoke for the state of the world if even the casinos, the richest money pits in the entire country, were running dry. "I'm sorry, Dean," I said.

Dean sighed. "There are many other places to strike up the band. I won't go hungry, at least." He glanced at the clock. "Speaking of hungry, would you like something to eat?"

I smirked and looked at him through half-open eyes. "Not exactly," I said.

"What exactly did you have in mind, then?"

"I'm no good with words. I prefer to show you." I winked. It was a pitiful attempt at flirtation, but it appealed to Dean. He took my hand and led me upstairs, his troubles, for the moment, forgotten.


End file.
